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A Lovecraftian short story I wrote. Enjoy, folks, and don't forget the comments! I also would like the opportunity to publish it!

The
Birth of Gug

by
Kenna Mary McKinnon

Over the line of the sultry hills bursts the blood of sun,
reminding me that I am late for the bloodbath with the Moon Beast and may be
late for my son’s birthing, as well. My son’s name will be Gug, who was conceived
in a dream of Kadath, the former home of the gods. He’ll be born into a heap of
skulls and other bones, as my wife, Mormo, wished. With teeth jagged to munch
on the midwife before she could tell the world of our undoing in the Valley of
Death, his eyes will be pink, jutting from each side of his black-furred head,
and his vertical yawning mouth yellow and agape between them. Our magic to
conceive him, juxtaposed from the Mythos of the Great Ones, was strong. You can
pile on the guilt but my heart will remain stone. I stand beside my wife and
newborn monster who will, I trust, help us to undo the outrage to my world.

I speak of the oceans and the plastic that will not bleed; I
speak of the designer water bottles that pollute and destroy; I speak of what Gug
can do when we lead the Green Party to election, just like Britain and its
henchmen, here in our Lord Anno Domino 1999.

My Palm PDA device flickers to life in my hand as my wife,
Mormo, summons me on her new golden PDA (so recently discovered and replacing
our old cell phone). Ensconced in our marriage bed, she breathes into the
instrument the words I’ve been waiting for all night, interrupting even my
bloodbath with the Moon Beast to make way for the birth of our son. Yes, we
named him already soon after the ultrasound showed us his tiny penis and shaggy
outline, our precious little Gug who will change the Earth for the better. Our
political agenda couldn’t happen at a better time, with trash littering the
planet where the new gods dwell. No, not Boston, but Winnipeg, for that is
where we live, my wife and I, and that is where the antichrist will be born.
Our precious Gug. I sigh with delight.

“Hippolytus,” my wife cries, “the time has come.”

I frown and bite my lip. Males are not allowed in the birthing
room. I am taking the call outside our dwelling, in the courtyard, and watch
the bloodred sun as it rises. The Moon Beast will not be happy with me. “Are
the midwives there?”

“Yes, all is ready. I feel the pangs of childbirth and they
are severe, but not as severe as the brushes of our Master,” she replies.

“He is cruel,” I agree, “and his pen draws close, I fear, to
the empty gods of Kadath.”

“Does the morning sun still stain the glass over the wondrous
halls of Winnipeg?”

“Yes, Mormo, I’m still here soaking it all in, the magical
vista before me of Winnipeg in the morning. The Moon Beast must find another
artist to best represent his fierceness. For I stayed here all night, slept in
the anteroom beside the birthing chamber, and now eagerly await the birth of
our little Gug.”

“I fear he is not so small,” she groaned. I could hear the
midwives scuttling about in the background. They would be helping my wife to
move into the birthing room next to our matrimonial chamber. I wished with every
tortured and bulging heart that I could be there, but the matriarchal society
in which we lived did not allow it.

Within my lifetime McCarthy won the election in the United
States and plunged us all into this nether universe, around which I understand
our sun whirls in disarray. There are those Nightgauntian spirits who insist
the earth is spherical. As you know, they are far outweighed by the rational
observation that the earth is flat and remains that way in spite of the
monsters who spiral up from the infernal edges, like the Kadathian god who is
Gug’s godfather and my good friend. The gods who dwell in Boston decreed it so,
that we should populate the Earth with our progeny that is our right, but the
Earth cannot sustain its original denizens much longer. Thus agrees our Maker.
There are many more like our son being born, right now, to the delight of the
Mythos Fandom, the whales and denizens of the oceans, and the turtles and rats
of Earth all entangled in the refuse left by Eve’s descendants.

Mormo went out and bought a little black onesie for Gug and
there is a black Pierre Trudeau toque sent from a friend on Manitoulin Island,
Ontario. We think our son will be well dressed. Our political agenda may come
to fruition with his birth. A boy from the Tower of Goth who munches plastic
and flesh. Excellent. He will be the perfect infernal machine to create a new
world, starting with our home town of Winnipeg and mowing down to the 49th
parallel then through Fargo, Minneapolis, and Fort Dodge. Boston is one of the worst
polluters but if Gug inherits my excellent eyesight and his mother’s good
sense, he will bypass Chicago and Boston rather than make a stint eastward. Our
nephew lives there with his wife and family. As an environmental engineer, our
nephew and his proctologist wife desire nothing less than to clean up their
city with the aid of clamps, scope, and gun, which is commensurate with the
plans of the gods. I’ve heard it’s architecturally bland, anyhow. Our Gug would
not be interested.

Winnipeg, as everyone knows, is the cultural centre of North
America, and we are happy to say we call it home, though the winters are fairly
brisk. Did I mention that Boston tends to be bland? It’s in New England, you
know.

Today we welcome our son to the world. I hasten into the
anteroom next to the birthing chamber. For many hours I chew my nails and wait;
the birds on the patio beside the huge apple tree in the courtyard chatter in
tongues. I hear the groans of my wife and the wailing of the nurses, then cut
short by a pregnant silence. I know the child of the Tower of Goth has arrived.

As I pull apart the curtains to the birthing room, I am
greeted by the wondrous sight of my Gug munching on the bones of the midwives,
and my Mormo chortling over his precocity and appearance, reminiscent of his
godfather. Perhaps too reminiscent? I ponder this challenge as it appears to my
fuddled mind. Prancing over the splintered bones of the nurses, I approach my
little family.

“My husband,” croons my wife, and opens her arms to me. I
fall into her cavernous embrace, which includes the busy form of our newborn
son, shaggy and quick-witted.

“Mormo. You’ve done well. He looks like a god.”

“Yes, he does. But resembles you, my husband, above all
gods.”

I pinch my lip and frown. “Perhaps. But his features bring
one to mind of the Kadathian who is my friend and the baby’s godfather, our
Master.”

She laughs, her pointed teeth flashing in the blood light
that streams through the open sashes. Her tentacles entice and wander. “You’re
dreaming, darling.Mythos is a trusted
advisor and no more.”

“He’s smiling at us!” I hold my son in a firm embrace, though
he towers far above my head.

“It’s gas,” explains the doctor, who arrives late, as always.
She opens her bag and pops a stethoscope onto Mormo’s distended stomach.
“Hmmmm.”

“Not another one in there?” Mormo shrieks.

“No. I wonder at the elasticity of your womb, though.”

“He grows fast,” my wife says. “He’s a big boy.”

The doctor snaps her bag shut and glances at the newborn
monster. “Mind if I take a look?”

“Help yourself,” I say, grinning. She screams, then there is
the silence of the slaughtered calves.

Gug munches happily as the doctor’s head disappears into his
maw like a gingerbread woman. My precocious son is so very precious. The blood
red sun has long ago risen from the east. I missed my appointment with the Moon
Beast due to Mormo’s bloodbath here in the birthing room. It may not be
important, but the bird of Good Fortune certainly shat decently on my
cornflakes this morning. Our political agenda is pure and certain. Even now,
Gug begins to munch his way from the birthing room to the kitchen, where stray
bits of plastic, like offerings to the gods, litter our table before being
taken to the recycling bin in our backyard. No need now. Gug’s massive incisor teeth
crunch through the back-screen door to the courtyard, then into the neighbor’s
bins, and next he trundles out through the gate to board the downtown city bus
to the Greyhound station. No one questions his lack of a ticket. He grins, and
the huge maw on the top of his shaggy head clicks and bleeds. I follow at a
distance, taking it all in, my newborn precious son and the political agenda he
will fulfill, as my Master told me he would.